


a testament to learning

by fallingbird



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, blood warning, minor character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 11:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7435917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallingbird/pseuds/fallingbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>time is not kind, but he cannot stop it passing. he loses too many moments, and yet, he unearths what he never realized he wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a testament to learning

Bellamy hears the sharp intake of breath long before it registers in his mind to turn around. When he does, the dim, flickering light at the entrance to the drop-ship catches his attention. A candle burns low, and he’s close enough to see the wax wasting away.

There’s another breath --- a muffled, frustrated cry. Clarke flutters into view, wiping blood on a dirty rag, and Bellamy watches her shoulders tremble.

“Clarke, he’s—”

“I know, Finn.” She disappears from view, and Bellamy presses his lips together before resuming watch.

The screams ended long ago. Time passes too slowly for them all.

***

The jabbing at his shoulder shakes him back to the land of the awake. Bellamy blinks once, twice, trying to differentiate between the morning sun beating on him and the artificial light of a memory turned dream. Wiping a hand over his face, there is a scowl ready to transform into a growl before he recognizes Nathan. 

“Finn wants to talk to you,” Nathan says, lips pursed. The bags under his eyes are pronounced compared to yesterday; Bellamy wonders if the other boy managed to snatch any sleep before his morning shift. “He says it’s important.”

“Tell him he can fuck off.” Stretching, Bellamy massages his shoulder, jaw tightening as irritation spikes. He'd rather release a long string of curses, possibly scaring half the camp and, most importantly,  _the goddamn idiot_. Instead, he stands from his impromptu sleeping spot, using the drop-ship behind him for support. “Actually, let’s see ---- he needs to call for an appointment, I’m booked for the next lifetime.” 

Nathan gives a small smile, shaking his head before taking a breath to reply —

“ _Bellamy_.” 

He mouths  _fuck_  to Nathan, and looks past somebody he trusts to somebody he doesn’t. “What?”

Finn beckons, a gesture flapping in the air like a damn chicken, and Bellamy doesn’t waste energy in keeping himself from rolling his eyes. He stomps his way to Finn, crosses his arms, and w a i t s. 

“Please don’t argue with Clarke today,” Finn says in a rush. When Bellamy raises a brow, he continues with, “Don’t push her buttons, Bellamy. Last night hit her hard." 

“When does a night like that never hit her hard?” A simple question, but perhaps he didn’t bite back enough of his irritation. At Finn’s furrowing brows, Bellamy rolls his eyes and appends, “Listen, if she doesn’t cross me, I won’t cross her. That’s the way it’s always been.” 

Finn stares at him for a few moments before shaking his head. He says nothing more, though, and Bellamy feels—relief?— _whatever_  as the self-proclaimed peacemaker walks off.

Pressing his tongue against the back of his teeth, Bellamy huffs and turns to speak with Nathan again. But a flash catches his eye, and he looks up.

Clarke is at the entrance to the drop-ship, cleaning her utensils. The worn silver shoots light everywhere. He has to squint to meet her gaze. 

She works her jaw like she wants to say something. Bellamy waits once more, almost frozen in place. He hates that. His hands go to his waist.

Clarke shakes her head and turns her back on him.

He lingers for a moment more, staring after her as she disappears into the drop-ship, and he sees that candlelight, remembers the dream of her silent tears.

Scrubbing his face with both hands, he walks away; he has shit to do, and none of it involves dwelling on something that won’t change.

***

A week passes with minimal conversation between the two of them. Inventory checks, re-scheduling of camp duties, murmuring a confirmation of a reprimand for those who break the rules --- they don’t actually fill a whole day’s worth of conversation. Where Bellamy used to see Clarke at every corner when in camp, he’s lucky to see her thrice in one day.

 _she has to learn to patch herself up_ , he tells himself. But a rebuttal presses back, whispering,  _every night you lose someone, she blames herself_.

What is he supposed to do about that, though? People dying is the norm, more so here on Earth. Where they started with one hundred, they have dwindled to eighty-two. More have died by their own stupidity than by Grounder ambushes.

He can’t do anything about that; Clarke is the one who tries to save them all.

But he can’t stop himself from sneaking glances at her over the nightly fire. He can’t help but notice how her hands are streaked a faded, rusty brown. He can’t shake how relief fills him at the news of another life saved despite how many have died.

When he turns his gaze to her, sometimes Clarke will be looking back. Light from the flames will dance across her face --- whether from joy or mourning depends on the type of day. Her lips will part, a question begging to be asked. But there is only silence because that is how they work.

He is always the first to look away.

***

Time, though, is a cruel master to them; it bleeds like the blood pressing against his hand, seeping through his fingers as a reminder there will be none left if he doesn’t **hurry**.

_“Get out of the fucking way!”_

Monty trips, Bellamy tipping with him as he tries to keep Harper upright. She cries in pain anyways, the whimpers escalating to a sound the whole camp is too familiar with. They all know to take a step back, to form a path to the drop-ship. This has happened before, and it will happen again; a trail of Harper’s blood is nothing new.

Octavia is behind them, footsteps light and  _hurried_ , and Bellamy looks over his shoulder. With lips pressed thin, her eyes seem aflame as she helps Monty stay upright.

She doesn’t want anyone else to die. But it’s not up to them in the end.

“Clarke!” he calls out, facing forward. A glint blinds his vision, and then Clarke is before him, her hands reaching for Harper before stopping herself. She meets Bellamy’s gaze.

He doesn’t look away.

“What happened?” Clarke asks as they enter the drop-ship. She leads them to the back, her hand gesturing to the table. A sheet covers it, but it’s as bloodstained as the table probably is. “Bellamy, Monty,  _what happened?”_

 “Grounder trap,” Bellamy reports. Monotony taints his voice. He clears his throat. “She missed impalement,  _twice_ , but she was still hit. We patched her as much as we could on the run, but she’s lost a lot of blood.”

 “Get her on the table then, what are you waiting for?”

Despite himself, despite the blood drying on his hands, Bellamy snorts. _“Yes ma’am.”_

He thinks he catches a rolling of eyes, but his focus is torn back to Harper at the girl’s breathless groan. She's washed-out, drained, her lids fluttering as she flits between consciousness and something worse. He and Monty lay her on the table, and Octavia dashes to apply pressure to Harper’s wound. Bellamy takes a step back, assessing, preparing for the worst.

“Clarke,” Monty croaks, “What can we do?”

Bellamy keeps his eyes on Harper, watching her slip away to the line between life and death. He hears the  _pop_  of thread ripping between teeth. It is the sound of late nights and lost lives, a curse repeated over and over. But right now the sun is shining, and Clarke is nudging Octavia to the side, to rub shitty, Jasper-stirred-alcohol on Harper’s wound.

“Clarke, what can we do?” Monty repeats. Bellamy clenches his jaw.  _yes, clarke, what can we—what can **you** —do?_

Clarke doesn’t pause in her work when she answers, quick and steady, “You can pray.”

He catches the scoff drumming in the back of his throat and shoves it down, down, down. He takes another step back; he loses another moment to sharp, frustrated breaths.

***

He hears her footsteps before searching for her in the dark. Her blonde hair is hard to miss when the moon is shining, and he watches her instead of the terrain.

 _idiot_.

Bellamy clears his throat, and her head lifts from her feet to him, shock and confusion written on her face. He tilts his head and cocks a brow, before forcing himself to scan for Grounders instead of lingering on the shake of Clarke’s hands.

She settles close enough that their arms brush with every other breath. She wraps a hand around one of the older stakes. It’s an odd contrast to the newer pieces, greying wood that looks like it will disintegrate if she grips it too tight.

They remain silent. Both of them look into the darkness; him for Grounders, her for whatever answer she’s trying to find.

“Has Harper woken up to thank you yet?” he asks, struggling to keep his voice easy, neutral. The silence is deafening when she is adding to it, but there’s no need to let her know he’s trying to overpower it.

“She did wake for a few moments to say she’s alive, but right now, she’s choosing sleep as her priority.” Clarke’s finger taps against the stake; she does not turn to him.

“Wow, never thought she would be a problem child. No thanks the moment she woke? Oh so childish.”

“ _Bellamy_.” And there, despite the twinge of frustration, is the lilt in her voice letting him know she’s biting down a chuckle. He finally faces her again, raising a brow. Shaking her head, she sighs, crossing her arms and meeting his gaze.

“Where’s your babysitter, Princess? Isn’t it past your curfew?”

“Finn is not my babysitter, Bellamy.” Clarke works her jaw, but doesn’t break his impromptu stare-down. “He’s asleep or relieved Monty or doing something else. Contrary to the popular belief around here, he doesn’t always follow me.”

“Bet he would follow you to bed without a second thought if you let him.” Licking his lips, he smirks, waiting. This is how they are: banter and wit and teasing and  _aggravation_.

Clarke huffs and bows her head. Nodding, she runs her tongue over her teeth, and the silence drags. And maybe that’s the hint that he took a step he shouldn’t have, but Bellamy stands still, waiting, no apology bubbling forth.

“I’m tired, Bellamy,” she whispers. She finally closes her eyes, her nails digging into skin, and Bellamy watches them disappear into mounds of flesh. He knows it stings by how her jaw clenches, but there is no blood, no swallowing of tears to show just how tired she is of this life.  There is only this image now, and how she will remain standing on tired feet.

He wonders when he started noticing just what she was saying.

“Getting some sleep would fix that,” he says, so softly he thinks it’s lost to the air. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he manages to add, “Maybe pray for some good dreams.”

Clarke’s lids flutter open, but she doesn’t meet his gaze again.  Her nails relent, and he catches sight of crescent dents on her skin before she turns away. He wants to call out, say something more, but his tongue is numb, sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He turns away before she reaches the drop-ship, forcing his attention on the landscape. Clouds wrap the moon in their trap, and the light of the night disappears.

***

_“Scouting party is back!”_

The gate opens and Bellamy ushers his group into the camp before following them inside. When he is about to give direction about relieving their weapons, his words fall to silence as he watches the group start jogging to the drop-ship. Maybe there shouldn’t be pride in finally having competent people surrounding him, but he doesn’t stop the smile growing.

They’re becoming efficient, and they might not have to suffer the shaking reality of death.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Finn start to approach, and he keeps walking forward. Better to ignore the calls of his name than acknowledge an idiot’s presence at this point.

“Not so fast, Bellamy.”

Clarke’s voice is strong today, and she falls into step beside him. She does not stop him, not like the first days, and they continue to his tent.

“Nothing substantial to report,” he offers before she asks. “We found footprints near the last trap we set off, but they were a singular set according to Monroe.  Came across a couple camps that were a day old, but they’re probably scouting us like we are them.”

“Think they’re planning something?”

“Oh, most definitely,” he scoffs as they reach his tent. He goes to open the flap for Clarke, but she shakes her head.

“Let me know if anything else pops up for the evening party.”

“Don’t I always?” he almost coos, and she half-laughs, half-grimaces in response. The smile stretches easily across her face, and he only hesitates a second before he adds, “You look good today, Princess.”

Her smile shrinks, but it doesn’t disappear as she meets his gaze.  Her lips part, a sentence ready to sound, but she closes her mouth, thinks about something she probably shouldn’t. He waits, almost frozen. He hates that. He digs his hand into his palm, a spark against the numbness.

 “Not better?” Clarke finally says, and it takes Bellamy a moment to realize what she means. He raises a brow, but she doesn’t add anything more. Just tilts her head and waits, suddenly crossing her arms.

A smirk plucks at his lips.

“Things don’t become better around here, I think. They’re good or they’re bad.” He watches her brows start to furrow, and a full-blown smile crosses his face again. “Clarke,  _you look good_.”

Licking her lips, she nods; whether she’s satisfied with his answer, he doesn’t know. But a small smile returns, and it’s not as dim, not as withering. “I suppose,” she starts, uncrossing her arms, “it’s because of a good night’s sleep.”

This time, he doesn’t deny how it's relief pressing on his shoulders like a blanket. “I’ll be sure to let the cavalry know they shouldn’t disrupt the princess’ sleep again.”

With a roll of her eyes, she waves a goodbye. And in the time it takes her to disappear into the drop-ship, his gaze never leaves that shock of blonde hair, the shoulders that do not tremble, the curl of her fingers against the handle.

He takes a breath, and time starts again.


End file.
